Hear No Evil
by OverThexM00N
Summary: PostRent. Will Roger be able to enjoy his last days without the ability to hear the music that has helped him survive for so long?
1. The Songwriter Cannot Hear

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Mark or Roger, and I think they're pretty relieved about it, because boy, if I _did_ own them…

---

Twisting and turning constantly, he got caught up in the thin sheets that had been saturated through with sweat. Pain panged on every inch of his body, an aching without purpose or reason. He was unbearably hot but at the same time felt a deep-rooted chill that would surface sporadically, causing him to shiver so violently one might think he was having a seizure.

Finally he awoke from his feverish slumber, blinking and looking around, everything suddenly still, like the world settling after an earthquake. Roger took note of the eerie silence that dominated the atmosphere of his room and swallowed painfully, becoming aware of the frigid air that seemed to turn the sweat on his exposed skin to frost. He was displeased to find that the insatiable itch in the back of his throat that had plagued him for weeks hadn't left.

It bubbled up in the back of his throat but he refused to cough for fear of hacking up a bit of his lung. He had coughed too much for too long that he wouldn't be surprised if he were passing off a haggardly pair of shredded balloons as his respiratory organs. But holding back the cough made his eyes water, causing the room from his perspective to become dimmer and blurred. He knew he couldn't win; the cough nearly exploded from his mouth and he hunched over, coughing so forcefully that he threw up a little bit in his lap.

He was so stunned by the severity of his coughing that at first he didn't notice the fact that he couldn't actually _hear_ himself coughing. But when he let out a little sob of anguish at the hopelessness of his situation as he watched his stomach contents mix with the sweat in his sheets, he realized that he couldn't hear his own voice. Perhaps he had lost it from coughing so much; he wouldn't be surprised if he had completely eroded his voice box into oblivion. _That won't be good for my career,_ he joked bitterly, knowing that if he didn't recover from this, which was a likely scenario, he'd have no need for a voice or a career.

Wiping the fluid that had accumulated at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Roger stared at the door directly across from his bed. His brain was delirious with fever and working slowly since he had just woken up, and his memory failed to let him know what the day was. Was Mark home? It wouldn't hurt to give him a call. But when he opened his mouth to give a little cry, nothing came out. He had felt some slight vibration in his vocal cords, but they had failed to produce any sound at all.

Distressed and helpless, two feelings he wasn't very accustomed to, Roger gave an inaudible whine and wrapped his arms around his body, which seemed to have gotten much thinner since he last checked. His fingers grazed his ribcage, and Roger realized that he had managed to wrestle his shirt off again in the throes of his fevered and restless sleep. In the dark he groped around on his bed, pushing past the chilled, soaking bedsheets, but came up empty-handed.

He was about to get down on the floor and search for it when the door was thrown open suddenly, casting a pool of light over Roger, who recoiled in surprise. Mark saw his discomfort and dimmed the lights in the main room a bit, and Roger, panting from the shock, stared at him pleadingly. He needed comfort, warmth, relief, _something_…

Mark's mouth began to move but he didn't say anything. Heart beginning to race, a disoriented Roger looked at Mark questioningly, feeling a panic build up inside of him. _What the fuck…?_

Mark closed his mouth, looked at Roger with the same questioning look, then opened his mouth again as he came over to Roger's side and kneeled. Roger began to breathe more heavily, but this only encouraged the itch in his throat, and he turned away from Mark and began coughing, nearly throwing up again. He could feel Mark's warm hands on his back, and seconds afterwards the gentle breath of whispered reassurances in his ear, but he couldn't hear Mark's words over the unnatural silence that clogged his ears and prevented him from hearing his own coughing. _What is this? What's happening!_

Finally he felt his throat tighten as he gagged, then hurled the meager dregs of his stomach onto the floor. He gagged again and dry-heaved, with nothing left to throw up, then collapsed on the bed and began to sob. Mark remained at his side, his face close to Roger's, speaking words he couldn't hear. _I can't hear you, Mark… I can't hear!_

"I can't hear," he tried aloud, his breath muffled into the mattress; his mouth had formed the words and his voice box produced the sound to back them, but the sound never reached his own ears.

"I can't hear!" he tried again, shouting this time, his vocal cords straining to make his sentence as loud as possible; still nothing.

By this time Mark had his arms around Roger, who felt his own hot, shamefully terrified tears scouring his face. He clutched at the smaller boy, who held Roger's head against his chest like a protective mother, whispering unheard words into Roger's hair. _This can't be…_

_It can't…_

_I can't hear…_

---

Trying to ignore the sound of Roger's incessant coughing, Mark stood in the kitchen area, preparing chicken noodle soup. With a humorless, ironic smirk, he counted the tidbits that floated around in the watered-down broth. One diminutive chunk of chicken, five noodles, one and a half baby carrots. Not very nourishing, but it was better than nothing.

"I hope Roger can hold this down," Mark said to his distorted reflection in the bowl of soup. "It's all he's going to get until Mimi gets paid on Friday."

Leaving the soup on the counter to cool, Mark sat down on the couch, his own stomach growling with hunger. He eyeballed the bowl of soup, and as unappetizing as it was he knew he'd gulp it down at the drop of a hat if Roger didn't need it more. It's a good thing the soup didn't have much of a scent, otherwise Mark knew he wouldn't be able to control himself.

He tried to take his mind off the food by listening to Roger's frenzied spasms in the other room. Closing his eyes, Mark could picture Roger on his mattress, causing it to slide noisily across the floor as he lurched from one end of it to the other, tangled in his paper-thin sheets, almost as though he were going through withdrawal all over again.

Mark's disturbing thoughts were broken by an even more disturbing scream from Roger's room. Had he been calling his Mark's name? Was he having a nightmare, or was he wide-awake and in need of assistance? Either way, Mark didn't hesitate to leap to his feet and dash towards the room.

There was an assortment of whimpers behind the door, some frustrated, some pitiful. "Roger, what is it?" Mark asked, his hand clasped around the doorknob. "Roger?"

There was a squeal and the sound of bedsheets being thrown about but no worded reply. Trusting his instinct, Mark threw the door open, a little too swiftly than he had intended. Roger sat on his bed, awake, but grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut when the light illuminated his room. Cringing guiltily, Mark felt for the light switch and turned the lights down a little.

Two fearful green eyes stared at Mark, begging for consolation. Mark's heart became heavy with remorse, for he had no idea what he could possibly do to make Roger feel any better. In the earlier stages of his sickness, Roger had found it comforting when Mimi and Mark took turns stroking his forehead and running their fingers through his hair. But now, with his skin clammy and his hair damp with sweat, these actions didn't seem to have the same effect.

"Roger, do you need anything?" Mark asked, trying to keep his voice steady as Roger's stare became blank. "I've made some soup… perhaps you're feeling up to a nice warm bath?"

Roger just stared in confusion at Mark, as though he had ceased to understand English. After a moment he let a little sigh escape his slightly parted lips, but he showed no signs of comprehending anything Mark just said.

Tentatively, Mark made his way to the side of the mattress and kneeled down so he was on the same level as Roger, whose eyes had followed him across the room and now rested on Mark's face. "Roger?"

Roger began to pant nervously, making a little wheezing noise each time he inhaled. Suddenly he threw himself to the other side as he was overcome by a bout of coughing. Mark winced at the terrible sound and clambered onto Roger's bed, a little unnerved by the feeling of the moist sheets against his skin. "Shh… Roger, shh," Mark whispered gently, rubbing Roger's bare back, which gleamed with sweat in the dim light. "Shh…"

Suddenly there was silence. Mark let out the breath he had been holding in, but suddenly drew it back sharply when Roger threw up over the side of his bed. It wasn't a lot; Roger hadn't eaten anything for days now, but that just made it a little more nauseating because it was all just stomach acid.

With a despairing whine of defeat Roger let the arms that had been supporting him buckle, and he collapsed. He curled into a ball, shoving his face into the mattress to stifle his sobs. Mark watched with tearful eyes, then drew Roger against him, kissing the top of his head reassuringly. "I can't hear."

Mark blinked. This was the first he had heard of Roger's voice since he had entered his room. "Roger?"

"I can't hear!" he screamed into the mattress before letting another sob loose.

He then clutched at Mark, who lay beside Roger, cradling his head against his chest. "Roger, it's alright," he said, but Roger didn't respond, merely continued sobbing. _Can't hear?_

"Roger?" _Can't hear._

"Roger!"

Nothing but shaking sobs. _Can't hear…_


	2. False Hope, Lost Confidence

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/N:** Thank you very much to the grand total of three people who submitted reviews. I'm hoping to get more than that with this chapter and the ones to come, but I wasn't very disappointed this time, because the reviews I received were very nice. To answer **burntoemerge's** question, this might end up being slash if I can find a way to dispose of Mimi. But I don't want to give anything away, so just keep reading if you want to find out for sure!

---

Mark had held Roger for what seemed like hours. With his arms clasped around Roger's emaciated body, Mark could feel each quivering, spastic breath his lungs struggled to take in beneath the bulging ribcage. Eyes locked on the clock that he could barely read in the growing darkness, Mark wondered how many times Roger had breathed since he had collapsed. With a pang of nausea, Mark couldn't help but also wonder how many breaths Roger had left.

Roger's breathing began to calm, grow slower, and when he felt the deteriorating muscles become less tense, Mark knew that he had finally fallen asleep. Gently, gradually, Mark untangled himself from Roger and sat up, careful not to move the mattress as he placed his feet on the floor. Keeping the puddle of bile in mind, Mark felt his way around the room with his feet before remembering Roger's sheets. _Those won't do,_ Mark said as he tiptoed over and gently removed the chilly, soaking sheets from the mattress before proceeding outside.

Leaving the sheets in a wrinkled heap in the corner, Mark went into his own room and ripped up all the blankets he could from his bed before returning to Roger's room. Careful not to wake him, he wrapped the blankets around Roger's tremulous body. Before leaving again he felt compelled to give Roger another small kiss on the head.

With a shaking sigh Mark closed the door to Roger's room and plopped down on the couch. Roger couldn't hear, he was sure of that. The awkwardness in the way he spoke and his failure to respond to any of Mark's words were more than enough proof. But the question irking in the back of Mark's mind was whether or not this hearing loss was permanent.

Fingers twitching, he snatched up the phone from the side table, but his free hand levitated above the numbers. Who should he call? He felt Mimi should know about this first, but perhaps Collins would be of more help? Joanne would be a good choice if Collins didn't pick up and Maureen, well… Maureen didn't even cross Mark's mind.

Clumsily he began to dial Collins's phone number, then sat trembling with nerves as the phone began to ring. Panicked thoughts rushed at a frenzied pace through his brain. _Pick up, pick up, I can't stand being the only one who knows about this, I need to tell someone _now_, I need _help

"Hello?"

"Collins!" Mark blurted out, his voice cracking unintentionally. "Look, I need you over here right away. There's something wrong with Roger."

"Be right there," came Collins's voice without a moment's hesitation, and he hung up right away.

Mark gave a shaking sigh of relief, glad that Collins understood the urgency of the situation without him having to waste time explaining everything. Slowly he hung the phone up, debating whether or not to call Mimi. Having so many people in the loft at once might be a bit too noisy while Roger was trying to sleep. Mark winced at this thought; the noise wouldn't make a difference if Roger couldn't hear.

Tapping his feet, he waited for Collins to arrive. He hadn't bothered calling Mimi; he was sure she would eventually show up anyway to check up on Roger. It was inevitable that she would find out, so why have her worried sooner? Besides, if Collins had a solution, maybe there wouldn't be any need for worrying.

The sound of knuckles against the door eased Mark's tension tremendously. He got up to open the door for Collins, who slid into the room, a first aid kit under his arm. "What's the problem?" he asked hastily, looking around the loft and noticing Roger's absence. "He in his room?"

"Yes," Mark said, leading Collins to the couch. "Here, let's talk here. I don't want to wake him, it took a couple of hours to get him to sleep."

Though Collins sat there silently, his eyes were screaming at Mark for an explanation. Mark sighed, adjusting his glasses with still-twitching fingers. "I went into Roger's room earlier to see if he was awake and he… couldn't hear me," Mark began, his voice shaking a little. "He… I don't know, he couldn't hear me, couldn't hear himself, couldn't… hear."

Collins gazed past Mark, his eyes fixed on Roger's bedroom door. "Couldn't… hear?" he repeated. "Just… all of the sudden?"

"Yeah, he woke up and… that's what happened."

They sat in an unpleasant silence, both with their gazes cast downwards as they twiddled their thumbs and bit their lips. If Roger had gone deaf, that's all there was too it; there was no point in discussing it because there was nothing more to say. Only time would tell if Roger's hearing loss was permanent. Mark began to feel like a fool for believing that Collins could just pop in and make it all better. Collins was good at fixing a lot of things, but this… this wasn't fixable.

"My dad's deaf, you know."

Mark nearly jumped at the sound Collins's voice as it penetrated through the eerie quiet. Blue eyes met brown and Mark found that he had no words with which to respond, so he uttered a "Really?"

"Yeah… he was a musician, but… like Roger, he… woke up deaf one morning, after a really high fever… and that was it for him."

Collins's words hit Mark like a sack of bricks and he felt as though the force had sent him hurtling out the window of his apartment. Up until now he hadn't given any thought to what would become of Roger's only remaining passion: music. Music was what had kept him alive for this long, and now that it would be impossible for him to enjoy it anymore… Mark dreaded to think any farther than this.

"Maybe it's temporary…" Mark said contemplatively, with all the hope he could muster.

"Yeah," Collins agreed, though he knew that this fake hope wasn't fooling either of them. "Yeah, you're probably right… I'm sure Roger will be fine when he gets better."

Despite their faithful words and assuring smiles, this false confidence was drowned out by the volume of the unspoken truth; it was too likely that Roger would never recover this time, and he would never hear again.


	3. Angel of Music

**Disclaimer:** Let's think now… why do people write 'disclaimers'? I hate writing these every single chapter, haha.

**A/N:** I'm pleased to find that the review total has gone up since I posted the second chapter. I appreciate each and every comment and I'm overjoyed that you all found this idea to be original. I was so paranoid when I thought it up that someone would have the same idea as me and type it down faster, but luckily for me that hasn't happened. I'm sorry if I offended some of you with the whole 'disposing of Mimi' thing, but let me tell you that whatever happens happened because that's how I had it planned all along. Though your reviews inspire me to write more they don't influence me in changing the plot. So if something happens that you don't like, just know that it's how I originally intended to have it happen, not because I was persuaded otherwise. The story's all written out in my head; I'm just putting it down into the words and chapters that you now read a little bit at a time. As for pairings, right now it's just Mimi and Roger. Angel is dead and Mark is alone. Maureen and Joanne will only make a few appearances and they will be together. Now, without further ado, here's chapter three! Have fun!

---

Slamming the door behind her, Mimi proceeded up the stairs, driving her feet with unexpected force into each and ever step. Her pounding footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell, announcing to her neighbors that she wasn't in the best of moods. Clasping her purse in one hand and swiping at an unruly strand of hair dangling before her eyes with the other, Mimi came to the landing of Roger and Mark's apartment. Seeing that the door was loose, she kicked it open violently and entered the loft.

Mark and Collins were sitting on the couch, and they looked up, startled, as she made her entrance. Before Mark could even open his mouth, Mimi flung her purse at the wall and stomped her feet agitatedly. "I just had the most terrible day ever."

"It's about to get worse…" Collins muttered dryly, but Mimi talked right over him.

"They fired me! Of all people! Me, the very _life_ of the Catscratch!" Mimi continued, tramping angrily into the kitchen area and throwing open the fridge, in search of alcohol. "Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? I've had that job for so long. I've relied on that job since-"

"Mimi," Mark interrupted gently, his voice serious and quiet, sounding foreign to Mimi's ears and commanding her immediate attention as a result.

Quietly placing the can of beer she had found down on the counter, Mimi turned around, her eyes locked intently on Mark so he'd know that she was ready to listen. Yet-to-be-spoken complaints gurgled up in her throat like bitter bile, but she kept her mouth clamped shut and switched her mind in listening mode. "Yes?"

"You might want to, um…" Collins beckoned her to come closer, then motioned to the chair beside the couch, which she promptly perched herself on.

The severity of her own situation seemed to wither in the face of what Mark and Collins had to say, even before they began to speak. Mimi watched as Mark removed his glasses and cleaned them with trembling hands for the ninth time since she had arrived, and Collins kept clearing his throat and shifting about anxiously. Their mannerisms weren't right at all, and their unspoken words hung above her head, too high to be seen or understood but nevertheless casting a foreboding shadow that she couldn't help but fear. "What is it?" she asked, feigning a calm composure.

It suddenly occurred to her that it could be anything. There was no longer any room for her distress over being fired as her mind was flooded with horrible assumptions. Maybe they were being threatened with eviction again. Was somebody sick? Suddenly she remembered Roger. He had been really sick for a couple weeks now, and he had been asleep when she left for work earlier. Perhaps… perhaps he never woke up again?

"Tell me," she demanded harshly when the two men failed to respond to her first interrogation. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Roger… Roger's gone deaf," Mark said blatantly, not in the mood to beat around the bush, though his voice was fluctuating nonetheless.

At first Mimi was relieved. He hasn't died, not yet… but then wait. Deaf? Had she heard correctly? Roger, her Roger, her musician… deaf? A life without music to Roger was like banishment to Romeo; both would willingly have accepted death instead. And Mimi knew the story very well; Romeo got his wish in the end. What of Roger? When would his wish come true?

He wouldn't even be able to live his last days happily. Instead he'd die alone, without voices to comfort him. Deaf. She felt tears welling up as she tried this word out loud. "Deaf?"

Mark nodded solemnly. Collins said nothing, but pretended to be engrossed in kicking a dust bunny back and forth between his feet. Mimi repeated the word over and over again in her mind. _Deaf… deaf…_

"Where is he?" she asked suddenly.

Both Mark's and Collins's eyes darted past Mimi's shoulders, coming to rest on Roger's bedroom door. At once Mimi slid out of her chair, nearly sprinting towards the door. _Deaf… my musician, my angel, my Roger…_ "Mimi, he's asleep!"

Ignoring Mark's shouts, Mimi pried open the door to Roger's room and stepped in, pausing before the mattress on which Roger lie. The first thing her eyes landed on was not Roger but his guitar, placed in the corner and shrouded in darkness where it would most likely remain. She couldn't help but give a little squeal of agony, and quickly she clasped both her hands over her mouth as she began to sob. _My angel…_

There was slight movement beneath the covers, and Mimi's watery eyes averted to the bed. Roger's head was working its way out from beneath the covers, and with tousled hair and a forlorn expression he gazed at Mimi. This pathetic sight only made her wail louder, and with the image before her blurring she hurled herself at Roger. _My angel, my poor angel…_

She was received with open arms, and Roger nuzzled his head into the hollow of Mimi's neck. He made no sound but she could tell he was crying from the rapid, violent way his breath was expelled against her skin, with his chest shuddering against hers. She could feel his tears sliding down her neck, curving around her collarbone and breasts as they descended. They clung to each other as though Death himself was hovering above them, threatening to tear them apart the very second their embrace weakened.

"Roger," she squeaked between shaking gasps, her sobs muffled as she buried her face in Roger's hair.

He burrowed further into Mimi and continued to cry. Mimi rarely heard him cry before, maybe once or twice, but this… this was something she'd never heard in her entire life, and never wanted to hear again. He was making some noise now, a very slight whining, but as subtle as it was it was the most hopeless sound in the world to Mimi. It sounded as though every breath he took left him in a world of pain, as though every second longer he stayed alive made him a little more dead inside. _Give me your pain, my angel. I'll gladly make your burden my own. What does a dancer need with hearing anyway?_

By now Mark and Collins were in background, standing in the doorway and just watching Mimi and Roger as their world crumbled into pieces, incapable of saving them. The two held each other deep into the night, never once letting go, their bond never weakening.

_My angel…_

_My angel of music…_

_No longer…_


	4. I'm No Cripple

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the characters. The story is mine, though it wouldn't be possible without said borrowed characters.

**A/N:** I'm very happy with how this is turning out. I've altered my original intentions a bit, but not too drastically. This chapter's sort of happy; there needs to be a little sunshine now and then, but don't get too used to it; some pretty unexpected things are on their way. Sorry if you were waiting impatiently for this (haha, listen to me, I make it sound like the world revolves around this story), but I've been balancing this and Snow Wars _with_ writer's block (haha). And I don't want to beg, but reviews… who doesn't love them?

---

To say that life in the loft was going downhill would be a drastic understatement. Only after the discovery of Roger's hearing loss did the reality of everything finally become apparent. Nothing would get better, it would all just go to shit and stay there. Supplies had been dwindling before but now, with Roger on the brink of starvation and Mark putting every spare penny towards food, it really hit them just how shitty things really were.

After staying in Roger's room for a few days, only showing her face around the rest of the loft when she had to use the bathroom, Mimi felt compelled one day to just stand before Mark without any particular purpose. Mark had been reading the obituaries, as if he was just waiting to find Roger's name there, but he glanced up just in time to witness a rare Mimi sighting. With a look of dignity that gave Mark a glimpse of the old Mimi, she declared she was ready to find another job. Some club had to hire her. She was the star attraction at the Catscratch. Now she was free to appease the lesser-known clubs, to liven them up a bit. Who in their right mind _wouldn't_ hire her?

Hoping that he and Mimi weren't the only people who thought that way, Mark waved a goodbye, his eyes again focused on the faded newsprint. When he heard the door click shut he let the newspaper slide from his weakening grip, his eyes lifting to Roger's room. He found himself staring at that door more often now, and he pondered checking up on Roger. Mimi had been in there with him for a few days, so Mark had reluctantly let them be. But now that Mimi was gone, he felt that maybe Roger had become accustomed to having constant company. He should go in, it was his duty as a best friend.

He stopped before the door as he often did nowadays, afraid of what lay beyond. Was Roger still Roger, or did he become a living corpse in the interval of a few days that Mark hadn't seen him? Mimi had been watching him every second of the day, so what she experienced would just be a moderate degradation. But Mark, having not seen Roger for four days now, feared that entering the room with the 'before' picture in his mind wouldn't be enough to prepare himself for the shock of the 'after' picture that lay beyond those walls.

Leaning against the door, Mark twisted the knob, letting the slight pressure of his body push it open gradually. The gentleness of this action caused the door to emit a subdued creak instead of screeching as it often did when this particular door was thrown open or shut. Peering in irresolutely, Mark saw the last thing he expected to see: Roger sitting up on the floor, guitar in his arms, feeble yet determined fingers strumming quietly.

Mark's entrance was so placid that Roger hadn't even noticed his door opened. He kept on playing, without any particular structure, though his face was taut with that look of concentration that left faint wrinkles in his forehead. Placing his fingers with a surprising regard to accuracy, Roger closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nostrils, his mouth clamped shut and jaw set boldly. With callused fingers he strummed, one string at a time; Roger held the guitar close to his chest as he did this, as if the music he could no longer hear flowed through his chest via the guitar's vibrations.

Though he wasn't even aware of it, Mark was gaping, his mouth dry from the stale air of Roger's room. He merely stared at Roger, who sat there Indian-style hugging his guitar, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Suddenly he relaxed, and the atmosphere was so fragile that Mark could feel the tenseness flee from Roger's body. Opening his eyes he set his fingers to a different chord, but not without finally becoming aware of Mark's presence.

Abruptly Roger took on the persona of a child who just got caught with his hand groping about in the cookie jar, and he set his guitar aside urgently. His face reddened and Mark thought perhaps he was embarrassed, but when Roger's gaze returned to Mark, he was surprised to find that in Roger's eyes, where the flame had been dead for so long, a new fire was blazing. He looked at Mark almost challengingly, and when Mark failed to react, Roger stood up.

He stepped before Mark, and it was obvious that he wanted to say something, but it took a while for the words to come. Roger bit his lip, his face contorted mildly with thought, and his fear of sounding weird or saying the wrong thing became apparent to Mark. But the very second this thought entered Mark's mind, Roger opened his mouth and spoke, his words careful and just barely audible.

"I'm no cripple."

The words were slightly awkward but still comprehensible, yet Mark could do nothing for a while but blink in response. "Of course you're not," he said finally, catching himself before the words left his mouth and speaking slowly so Roger could read his lips. "I never thought you were."

Roger smiled for the first time in a while, and this alone showed Mark that he had comprehended. Without another word Roger spun around and made his way back to his guitar, sitting on the edge of his bed and lifting it into his lap, no longer in the playing mood but content with just admiring it. Mark watched as Roger, who was still smiling as he rubbed his thumb over the dusty surface of the acoustic. Roger's smile alone was all the solace Mark needed.

_Things are going to be okay after all._


	5. Mistrusting Desire

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** Sorry the update took so long. Here's one of the last fluffy chapters you'll see. I couldn't bring myself to make them suffer just yet. And this is where the slash will become apparent, though I've decided it will be pretty much one-sided. R/R please.

---

Collins stayed with them in the loft for a few days, teaching Mark and a not very cooperative Roger sign language. "When my father went deaf, our entire family had to learn sign language," he explained, spelling Roger's name out with his hands for the third time, reiterating the positioning of his fingers so Roger would remember.

Roger was very distracted today and as fidgety as a one-year-old getting weaned off his bottle. Mark sighed, knowing this was Roger's way of trying to avoid the subject at hand. When Roger failed to acknowledge Collins's signing, finding the stream of morning light pouring through his window to be of more interest, Mark suddenly snatched Roger's hands in a bout of frustration.

Jolting in surprise, Roger tensed and looked down as Mark manipulated his rough hands, forcing the fingers into position to sign an 'R' in a manner that was anything but gentle. Roger didn't cooperate but he didn't try to pull away either; he just watched as Mark continued, making the coarse fingers sign for 'O'. Collins observed as Mark finished out spelling Roger's name, then released the listless hands, allowing them to fall back to their resting spot in Roger's lap.

Roger glanced sideways at Mark, blinking in mild astonishment. Mark, suddenly struck with a feeling of awkwardness, held his gaze for a few seconds before feeling the blood rush to his face, forcing him to look away. He was slightly ashamed for losing his patience with Roger, but he also felt humiliation for touching his hands like that without permission. "You try now," he sputtered, trying to act as though what just happened was normal. "By yourself."

Clearly angry that Mark had forgotten that for Roger to read his lips he'd actually have to see them moving, he leaned over Mark. Looking him directly in the eyes, Roger let the intensity of his glare sink in before pointing to his ear with a matter-of-factly expression. Mark, already flustered enough from holding Roger's hands in his like that, became a deeper shade of red and mouthed "Sorry."

Collins placed his hand on Roger's shoulder, startling the young man and pulling away from the trembling Mark. Trying to divert his attention from Mark's embarrassment to the more important matters, Collins spelled out Roger's name again, then stared at Roger until he made a move to copy the sign. With a little, inaudible sigh of defeat, Roger spelled out his name almost mechanically before punctuating the word with the flip of his middle finger.

---

By the end of the week, Roger had learned enough sign language to communicate to Mark and Mimi what he wanted. That goes without saying he never actually made an effort to use it. He still relied on primordial grunts and whining to express his needs, and on occasion he still spoke, though his ability to do this was deteriorating rapidly.

Most of his time was spent in his room, though this didn't surprise Mark or Mimi at all; it was just the Roger thing to do. Often the vague sound of guitar chords could be heard beyond the threshold to Roger's room, always accompanied by sounds of frustration. It was expected, of course; though he was still capable of playing, it wasn't at all the same as when he could hear. Roger nearly put his fist through the wall in vexation before Mark entered and persuaded him that there were better ways to make the loft look more like a shithole.

Mark found himself on the phone with Maureen, telling her about Roger's ailment and its irreversible result. Maureen's reaction was quite contrary to what Mark had expected from the drama queen. Despite popular belief, she wasn't one to fret when it came to serious matters, and Maureen had remained optimistic after receiving the news. "Well, he's still alive, and that's what really matters," Maureen had said, though Mark knew Roger would rather have died and gotten it over with. "But he's probably feeling bummed. We should do something to cheer him up. How about a party at the Life? We could get everyone together and just hang out like we used to."

Though this was suggested for Roger's benefit, Mark found himself liking this idea for himself as well. "Good idea," Mark said. "Let's get everyone together at the end of the week. I'll need some time to clean Roger up."

Little did Mark know that cleaning up Roger would be a bigger chore than he made it out to be.

Roger's hair had grown long and was unbearably tangled, so Mark, though he lacked severely in knowledge of how to cut hair properly, set to trimming it. Roger sat on the floor without complaining as his severed locks fell in clumps around him, and when Mark had finished the two-hour task Roger's hair was as short as it had been before he had gone to rehab. Mark smiled, proud at his accomplishment; as inept as he was with scissors, he had done a good job, and Roger looked much better.

Though Roger was compliant when Mark took the scissors to his knotty, bleached-blonde mane, he was anything but cooperative when Mark revealed a nail file, making his intentions very clear. The sight of the object coerced Roger to break into a run, though there weren't many places to hide in the loft. At once Mark cornered Roger and managed to wrestle him to the floor, filing his nails down to a civilized length despite Roger's tears and whimpers of protest.

Afterwards Roger was far too exhausted for anything else, and Mark allowed him to wander back into his room and collapse onto his bed after recovering from the traumatizing experienc. _Baby steps,_ Mark told himself. _It's not a lot, but it's still progress._

---

The next morning Mark came to the conclusion that Roger was long due for a shower. As he flitted about the loft dusting, he wondered if Roger would need help bathing. Part of him had wished that Roger was capable and independent enough to shower on his own, yet a tiny, unfamiliar part of him hoped that Roger would ask for assistance. _That's a weird thing to think,_ Mark thought, and as his dissenting thoughts ricocheted off the walls of his mind and collided he found himself entering Roger's room.

It was all too obvious that Roger's room needed more than just a good dusting, but Mark knew he had to start somewhere. He whisked the duster over the surface of the bedside table, but before long he felt his eyes drawn to Roger's sleeping figure. His face was just visible beneath the covers, his features pure and serene, free of the tension that was always present there during his conscious hours. Roger looked so relaxed when he slept, almost childlike, especially now that his hair wasn't as barbaric as it had looked before. Mark felt a yearning to reach out and let his fingers make contact with the flawless cheek, but he held back the urge, mostly because he didn't quite understand it.

After a while of observing Roger, Mark went back to dusting, but soon enough he found himself staring again. Suddenly seized by a sense of playfulness, Mark swept the duster lightly over Roger's neck. This sent Roger into a flurry of giggles, and he batted at the jumble of feathers, muttering in his sleep. "Mimi, not now…"

Mark proceeded to brush the duster over Roger's face, relishing the way Roger's grin widened as he scrunched his slightly freckled nose like a rabbit. Mark continued tickling him, biting his bottom lip to keep back the laughter that threatened to explode from his mouth as Roger continued swatting unconsciously at the duster. It was like playing with a kitten.

The dust became too much for Roger and he sneezed himself awake. Mark whirled around, pretending to busy himself with dusting the lampshade, grinning goofily with the effort of holding back laughter. Out of the corner of his eye he could feel Roger's own viridian eyes piercing his side, and he caught sight of the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin. As he edged over to the corner of the room and began dusting the doorknob of Roger's closet, Mark felt something smack forcefully into his back, the impact sending him flailing to the floor.

Immediately the awkward silence of the atmosphere was broken as Roger's laughter rang out. Disoriented, with his glasses knocked askew, Mark clawed at the wall, bringing himself to his feet. Turning around, he found a pillow lying at his feet, and raising his eyes he found that Roger was propped up in his bed on his elbows, smirking slyly like a wildcat. Another pillow dangled from his grip, ready to fly at Mark at the slightest provocation.

Returning the smirk, Mark snatched the pillow off the floor and hurled it back with just as much force in Roger's direction. Roger dodged it nimbly, then countered by throwing the second pillow, and after that the original pillow. By the time Mark had recovered Roger had leapt at him like a panther, pinning him to the ground and laughing triumphantly.

Mark squirmed but Roger used his superior weight to keep Mark immobilized. Remembering the feather duster, Mark's hand groped around until he closed his fingers around the handle, then lifted it up and swiped at Roger's abdomen. At once Roger curled up and fell to Mark's side, giggling in a childlike manner and clutching at his stomach.

Taking advantage of this moment of weakness, Mark scrambled to all fours and bounded over to Roger, clambering onto his back and making him laugh even harder. Roger regained his control and forced Mark back to the floor but by now Mark knew where Roger was most ticklish, and he assaulted those places mercilessly.

By the time it was over the two of them were far too fatigued to even move. They lay beside each other, alternating between gasping for air and laughing breathlessly, the air ardent with their rising body heat. Mark, who had amazingly managed to keep his glasses on throughout the whole fiasco, was laying flat on his back. He tilted his head so he could see Roger, who was sprawled on the floor at his side, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled for more breath to expel in the form of laughter.

At that moment Mark was overcome with a desire to kiss him.

Driven on by the impetus of lust, Mark found himself rolling onto his side and leaning his head in so it was resting just beside Roger's. Closing his eyes, he allowed his lips to brush lightly past Roger's cheek, but at that moment the door was flung open and Collins entered. Both Mark and Roger glanced up, Mark because of the shrieking door and Roger because he could feel the gust of air that the swinging slab of wood on its rusty hinges created.

"Bathtime!" Collins bellowed jovially, holding up a rubber duck and squeaking it.

Roger gave a gleeful, childish smile, and though Mark grinned too it was forced. He was upset that Collins had interrupted but also grateful; he had prevented Mark from doing something he might have ended up regretting.

But as Roger staggered to his feet and left Mark's side, taking all the heat and comfort with him, Mark knew that not doing anything was far more regretful.


	6. Bad Omens

**Disclaimer:** Don't own them.

**Author's Note:** Wow, I'm sorry this took so incredibly long. School's been hectic and I grounded myself from the computer for doing poorly on a test. But now that I'm back I've decided to write another chapter and here it is! Sorry, but things are gonna get crummy for the guys from here, so if you want a happy ending I suggest you don't read this. Re-read Chapter Five and pretend that that's the last chapter because that's the happiest it's going to get. This chapter is exactly what Mark suggests at the end: a bad omen, a warning of the sadness that is to come. Ray, in case you'll be wondering, is Collins's sort of boyfriend. I don't really like the idea of him dating someone other than Angel, even though she's dead, but I feel that he needs some companionship. I obviously made Ray up and you'll see a little of him in the next chapter, but I'm thinking maybe I'll do a separate story with him and Collins once I clear my plate of all these partially-finished stories, haha. Well, enjoy. And don't forget to review and give suggestions, otherwise this might not end up to your liking.

---

Collins exited the bathroom and sat beside Mark, who was on the couch leafing through a severely outdated issue of The Village Voice. "Well, he's still pretty weak and he needed some help getting situated in the shower, but he should be fine," Collins informed Mark, who sat stone-faced, with his eyes glued to words that didn't mean anything to him. "I'm gonna go meet up with Ray. We'll catch ya'll at the Life later."

Mark twisted the newspaper in his hands, scowling disdainfully and muttering a half-hearted farewell as Collins left. He felt that if it was anyone's duty to help Roger through this, it was his and his only. Sure, Collins and he had known Roger roughly for the same amount of time, but it was Mark who had stayed with him this long. Mark had stayed with Roger through the April dilemma, through the withdrawal, through the various medications he was administered after discovering he was HIV positive. Collins, on the other hand, had left. Left for better things. He probably regretted leaving them alone, but regret didn't help anyone. It was Mark who had stayed. Stayed for Roger.

_I'd choose Roger over the chance to go to Hollywood anyway._

His thoughts were interrupted when a stifled cry exploded from the bathroom. At once Mark was on his feet as he was accustomed to doing these days, running towards the room, and he stopped just outside the door, knocking. "Roger, it's Mark. Do you need me to co-"

Mark paused. _Stupid, he's deaf! Is it that hard a thing to remember?_ Twisting the doorknob, Mark shoved the door open and was assaulted with another shout and a massive cloud of steam that fogged up his glasses. Taking them off and swiping at the lenses curtly with his sleeves, he slid them back on and gasped at the image that came into focus.

Roger was hunched over and crouched down in the tub, his eyes squeezed shut. There was a razor on the tiled floor, and Mark was helpless to stop the memories of April's demise as they began to cloud his already-hazy mind. For the briefest moment the blade seemed to gleam a lethal red. Coming to his senses, Mark realized this to be only a trick played by his runaway mind and let out a sigh when the true problem made itself apparent.

Roger was in distress but not in serious pain. His hair was still partially lathered, and runny foam was cascading down his bare skin, deliquescing and disappearing down the drain. Mark forced himself to ignore the pleasant gleam that shone on Roger's wet skin and focused on his face. His eyes were closed so tightly that Mark knew immediately that some shampoo had gotten into his eyes. Mark couldn't help but smile despite his friend's irritation. It wasn't a life-threatening issue as he had expected, just a few stray soapsuds.

"Open your eyes, Rog," Mark crooned soothingly before wishing that his leg could bend back far enough so he could kick himself in the ass. _Deaf, Mark. Do you know what that means? He can't hear you. And at the moment, he can't see you either._

Exhaling slowly, Mark allowed his thumbs to gently push some of the shampoo bubbles away from Roger's eyes. At this meek, delicate touch Roger recoiled and omitted a whine like a caged animal. Mark watched him cringe and pull away, withdrawing to the corner of the tub and rubbing his eyes. "We need to wash them out with water," Mark said, exasperated, harboring the slightest hope that perhaps God would allow Roger to hear just this one sentence, as it would make the situation so much easier. "Rubbing will only make it worse."

Reaching out his arm out only to have it smacked away, Mark plopped to the ground in a puddle of bath water that had accumulated on the floor. This was a most vexing task, and Mark was half-hoping that Collins had forgotten something and would be back any minute now to help. He hated to admit it but he felt powerless without Collins's assistance.

_I can go through the anger and the abuse and the drugs, the withdrawal and the screaming and the duplicity, the all-out refusal to cooperate and the apathy and the depression, but when it comes down to this little dilemma I need Collins to help me._ Mark was utterly forlorn. The guilty feeling of the blood in his body beginning to rush to an inappropriate place wasn't of much help either. It killed him to hold back the urge to glance anywhere below Roger's collarbone. _As if things weren't difficult enough, I'm now fluctuating between helpless and horny for reasons beyond my comprehension. God help me._

Suddenly he felt someone staring at him and glanced up to see Roger blinking, his eyes red and raw from being rubbed so furiously. All selfish feelings of lust had vanished with this one pleading stare as though it was a smack to the skull. Before Roger had a chance to close his eyes again once the stinging became apparent, Mark abruptly signed for Roger to wait and cupped his hands under the running water. Calmly he splashed some into Roger's eyes, and Roger winced but didn't shy away or bring his hands to his face. "Trust me," Mark said aloud, taking Roger's face in his hands to make sure he could see his lips forming the words. "Always trust me. I'm never going to do anything hurt you."

With pacifying fingers he brushed the remaining soapsuds out of Roger's eyes, then repeated the rinsing process again. By this time Roger could keep his eyes open without displaying too much discomfort, but they were still bloodshot and Mark couldn't tell how clearly he could see. Grabbing the dry towel off the top of the toilet, Mark dabbed gingerly at Roger's eyes before helping him stand up, all the while desperately trying to ignore the unsettling, heated feelings that overcame him.

Those green eyes watched him with such intensity that Mark feared they could see right through him. He felt ashamed as though these unexplained thoughts and feelings were exposed and out in the open, free for Roger to see and comprehend without Mark himself even having to utter a word. Perhaps Roger received the ability to read minds in exchange for his hearing?_ Mark, stop thinking up such stupid things. This is no joking matter._

Feeling awkward with those eyes locked unwaveringly on him, Mark knew now would be a good time to make an effort to communicate. Slowly he signed: "Are you alright now?"

Standing under the stream of water, no longer warm because it had been running without purpose for so long, Roger watched Mark as he pondered the question, then responded. "Finished," he signed. "Help out?"

Mark stood there, the intimidating thought of his hands against Roger's body overwhelming in his mind. Roger's gaze grew more befuddled with every passing second and finally Mark came to his senses, unfolding the towel he had been holding in a flurry of nervous energy. With one arm he latched on to Roger's arm, helping him step, dripping, out of the tub, then draped the towel around Roger's trembling shoulders. Roger continued to watch Mark for a moment, the towel loose like a cloak around his body, then took a step forward. Mark's heart thumped uneasily as Roger leaned against him, his damp forehead pressed to his shoulder, as if the task of getting out of the shower was so strenuous he was left drained.

Before Mark could respond he felt Roger's body go limp against him, then slide without warning to the slippery tile floor as Roger fainted. Allowing a squeak to escape his tightening throat Mark dropped to his knees and took Roger in his arms. Shaking him slightly he could see Roger's eyes flutter open, then return to Mark's face. At once he took on a look of embarrassment and averted his gaze to Mark's hands, which were pressed against his arm, holding the towel closed around him. "Sorry," he muttered out loud, his tone quiet and his voice weak.

Mark just smiled to let him know that it was okay. When Roger refused to return the smile Mark slid a corner of the towel over Roger's head and ruffled his hair in an attempt to dry it, making Roger squirm beneath his hands and give an unintentional laugh. Grin broadening, Mark helped Roger back up and led him out the door to his room so he could get dressed. Roger insisted he was feeling well enough now to dress himself, and Mark let him go without an argument.

As Roger walked over to his room, stumbling just before he could cross the threshold, forcing him to grab onto the doorframe for support, the itching nervous feeling that had been suppressed for only a few minutes began to start up again in Mark. _Roger was feeling just fine, and he's been just fine for weeks. Everything will continue to be okay, _Mark reassured himself as Roger glanced over his shoulder at him and laughed jokingly, poking fun at himself and his inability to walk properly.

Mark could tell he was scared to death.

Despite this, Mark forced himself to look past the fakeness of the laughter, telling himself that it was Roger's way of encouraging him, letting him know he was truly okay. _Roger's going to be fine,_ he repeated in his head, trying to ignore the opposing voice that insisted this whole day was a bad omen, just a small taste of the terrors to come.


	7. Last Moments

**Disclaimer:** Don't own them.

**A/N:** Hello again. First of all, I must apologize for not having posted a new chapter for over two months. I need to make more of a commitment to this, but that won't really happen until summer. School is hectic and I've failed a few tests, but lately I've been spending more time studying instead of using the internet and I've been getting more excellent than failing grades. I'd like to keep that up until the end of the year, and that means there probably won't be a new chapter after this one until the summer, as I'll be devoting my free time to studying. I'm sure those of you in school can all relate to my dilemma and hopefully find it within yourselves to forgive me for my absence. I made this chapter super long to make up for the two months of nothingness you've received. Because I haven't written a lot since the last chapter, my writing might be shaky or weird-sounding, so for that I also apologize. I tried to put as much emotion as humanly possible into this, but near the end of this chapter my mom started watching TV and it was distracting, but I NEEDED to finish this, so I continued until the end. So blame my mother for that one.

This, sadly, might be all until the summer, unless one of the weekends between now and then clears itself up. Please enjoy this and review. Let me know how you feel about how the story is going, because my worst fear is letting you all down.

---

The rhythm of Mark's heart became more sporadic as the day outside darkened into evening. Dressed in the best clothes he owned, he perched himself on the arm of the couch, his usual post, with his eyes locked on Roger as he ran a comb through his hair. The bathroom floor was still wet, a reminder of the dilemma that had occurred earlier in the day. Since then Mark's heart rate only seemed to increase, serving as another reminder of the terror he had felt when Roger fainted.

Roger's hair was still damp, with droplets of moisture clinging to each individual strand. The last time they had a blow dryer take up permanent residence in the apartment was when April was alive. Mimi would bring one up with her when she stayed, but since she lived just downstairs it was much more convenient when she used her own bathroom. With his thoughts on Mimi, Mark now found himself smiling at a picture he had taken of Roger and Mimi on the swings at the park. There was a leaf stuck in Roger's hair, and both his and Mimi's cheeks were pink from the frigid air. _I miss those days,_ Mark thought sadly. _Days where they were still healthy, if you could even call it that. Healthy enough to go out in the cold for more than ten minutes at a time._

Taking the gaudy frame composed of cardboard slabs with glued on macaronis and Fruit Loops (a gift from Angel that during periods of starvation they had surprisingly enough managed to avoid eating), Mark brushed his thumb over the image of Roger's face. It gave him a feeling of contentment, but the feeling was short-lived, as it vanished the instant he remembered Mimi was in the picture as well. A mixture of emotions assaulted Mark, ranging from jealousy to confusion to absolute disgust towards himself. _Mimi's an amazing girl and I'm happy that Roger has someone like her,_ Mark told himself sternly. _And I'm his best friend. _Just_ his best friend. And that's all I'm ever going to be._

The sound of hoarse coughing drew Mark's attention back to the bathroom. As soon as his eyes had met with Roger's the guitarist ceased coughing and smiled grimly at Mark. Roger had been so tied up in the task of trying to suppress the coughs he didn't seem to notice Mark jumble with the picture frame before slamming it back into its spot, causing a few loose Fruit Loops to detach. Despite himself Roger let out a few more coughs just before clearing his throat forcefully and grabbing the glass they kept at the sink for water. Mark gave up trying to steady the frame and watched with concern as Roger filled the glass to the brim and guzzled it. Sputtering a little as another cough seized his lungs, Roger forced the rest of the water down, turned to Mark to grin again and signed "Just a tickle."

Less than convinced, Mark nodded solemnly as Roger dumped the remaining water down the drain and shuffled out to get his jacket. Struggling with the feeble scrap of fabric, Roger finally got his arms through the proper holes only to discover that the zipper was broken. Mark furrowed his brow as Roger wrestled with the zipper, wondering how much money they could afford to put towards a new coat. Once Roger had curbed his aggravating attempts to fix the zipper, he glanced at Mark, trying to hide his frustration but failing miserably. Mark figured now would be the best time to introduce the idea of getting a new coat. "Do you want to visit the flea market on our way to the Life?" Mark signed swiftly, pretty excited himself, anxious for Roger's reaction. "Perhaps pick up a new coat?"

Roger watched intently, and then nodded to show his comprehension, his lips curving slightly with signs of a smile. Mark was aware that he had strict rules when it came to money; he liked to put it all towards Roger's AZT, then let the rent and price of food eat up whatever money remained, if any. But he knew that a decent coat was just as important to his friend's health as the medicine he took at intervals through the day. Besides, after all he'd gone through since his hearing loss Roger deserved something nice, something he not only needed, but wanted.

Fingering the small mass of bills in his jean pocket, Mark led the way out of the building, glancing back as he hurried down the stairs to make sure Roger didn't lose his footing. The two men stepped out into the street, the air crisp and cool beneath a magnificently black sky. On their way to the Life they passed a small market that specialized in clothing and accessories. Before purchasing the coat that Roger chose for himself he and Mark marveled over a barrel of walking sticks. Roger smirked as he picked up a smooth wooden one, then proceeded to parade about the sidewalk in a stately manner, swinging the cane. Mark couldn't help but laugh as he took the cane away from Roger like a mother prying something dirty or dead out of her child's grasp and dropped it back into the barrel.

The Life wasn't as cluttered as usual, which was a good thing, Mark supposed. He kept in mind that Roger was just being reintroduced back to society, and though it wasn't the first time this was happening, he still wanted to keep things as comfortable and calm as humanly possible for him. Of course, Mark knew that would be a difficult thing to achieve when he spotted Maureen's glowing face pressed against the window.

She mauled Roger the second he and Mark entered, clutching his gaunt face in her hands and squeezing his cheeks like a solicitous aunt, though Roger had gotten so thin that his dimples had grown fainter and there wasn't much cheek left to pinch. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Maureen slid her hands to the top of his head and clutched a handful of his freshly cut hair. "Look at you!" she crooned, delighted at the sight of Roger's haircut; Mark couldn't help but beam with self-satisfaction at his successful attempt at grooming Roger.

Despite his appreciative smile, Joanne could see that Roger was growing uncomfortable with Maureen's prodding, and she pried her girlfriend away, massaging her shoulders persuasively when she whined in protest. After a few seconds of enjoying the unexpected back rub, Maureen broke away from Joanne, but instead of fussing over Roger again, she came barreling towards Mark. Grabbing his hand before he could escape, she lowered her voice and smiled at him sadly. "And how have you been, Pookie?"

He had assumed he would feel the usual pang of nausea at the mention of his old pet name, but surprisingly he felt nothing. It came as a huge relief, especially since he had more important things on his mind and there was no room for remorse over a relationship that had ended years ago. "We've been okay."

Her brown gaze was fixed intently on his face, pinning him against the wall like a butterfly in an insect collection. "But Mark," she said, sounding utterly serious for the first time in… well, forever. "How are _you?_"

Before Mark could formulate an answer that would satisfy her, Joanne called from one of the many tables in the café, where she and Roger had taken their seats among the others during Mark and Maureen's private, albeit brief, chat. Mark was grateful to find that everyone was sitting at an inconspicuous table situated in the corner of the room. _Wonderful. For once we won't be attracting attention to ourselves._ Mark thought._ The waiters will be pleased as well, I'm sure._

With Mark's hand still in her grip, Maureen led him through the throng of people waiting to be seated. Once Maureen released him to reassume her spot on Joanne's lap, Mark took the empty seat next to Roger, who was looking sheepish and shy with Mimi on his other side. While the two, who hadn't seen each other in over a week, got reacquainted, Mark was introduced to Collins's new companion. "Mark, this is Ray," Collins said, gesturing to a young albino beside him. "Ray, this is Mark, one of my old room-mates as well as a very good friend."

Ray was slender, with short, fluffy white hair, delicate, almost feminine features (though, unlike Angel, he was anything but a transvestite), and pinkish red eyes. His fidgety demeanor and the nervous way he blinked reminded Mark of a rabbit contemplating crossing a busy road. Beside the dark Collins, the whiteness of Ray's skin was magnified, and smushed between Joanne and Collins, Mark couldn't help but see him as the cream filling of an Oreo cookie. Ray's pale lips curled up in a small, shy smile as he and Mark looked each other over, and then reached simultaneously across the table to shake hands. "Nice to meet you," Ray said softly, and Mark replied likewise.

"You two will be great friends, I'm sure," Collins assured them. "Ray, this is the guy that made that documentary you saw the other night. He's a filmmaker."

"Really?" Ray asked, suddenly showing a genuine interest in Mark, not just interest feigned for the sake of politeness. "I'm a playwright. I've never actually written a real script for a real movie, but some of my work's been performed by amateur troupes."

Maureen perked up at Ray's words and immediately stole the conversation away before Mark had the opportunity to respond or show his appreciation. "In case you ever need someone strong, beautiful, and independent to fill a lead role," Maureen breathed dramatically, leaning over Joanne so Ray could get a closer look at her. "I'm an actress."

By now Mark had decided he over-satisfied his Maureen quota for the day. Opening the menu he knew by heart, he scanned the pages for anything new, but nothing seemed appealing. In the background Mimi talked about her new job at the _Rojo Calor_, about how the boss fired another girl to make room for Mimi and that every trek to work was like a game of survival; the girl she replaced wasn't quick to forgive Mimi for sending her into the streets without a job. Zoning out, with his menu still open, Mark secretly concentrated on Roger, whose congested breathing could be heard over Maureen's chatter. He wondered if anyone else heard it; if they did, they weren't saying anything. Or maybe they just didn't care as much as he did. _Mark Cohen, that is a terrible thing to think,_ Mark reprimanded himself. _You think you're the only one who cares about Roger? Just look at all these people, here to support him._

Despite what he told himself, it barely seemed anyone was acknowledging Roger. Mark understood that Ray was shy and didn't know Roger that well, and Joanne and Maureen didn't know any sign language other than the obscene ones Collins taught them when they were all drunk. Mimi knew a little, Collins knew more, but since they sat down, neither glanced in Roger's general direction. Just a smile from Collins or a peck on the cheek from Mimi would have sufficed, but Roger received neither. Did they think he changed? Were they afraid of how he'd react to them?

Peering across the laminated surface of the menu, Mark watched Roger as he stared dully down at his napkin, creased from having been folded numerous times. Perhaps it was just the abnormally dim lighting, or maybe his prescription was failing him, but through Mark's lenses Roger seemed to be an unhealthy sallow hue. Suddenly Roger's breathing was cut short, as if something was obstructing his airway, and in one subtle movement he brought his napkin to his mouth and coughed, letting the fabric muffle the sound. Everyone was too caught up in their own prattling to regard this, but Mark couldn't pry his eyes away from his friend. The fit only lasted for a few seconds, and Mark tried to relax, but afterwards every cough from Roger or even just the clearing of his throat or a sniffle left Mark feeling tense and fearful.

Shortly after they all settled down, the waiter arrived, licking the tips of his finger and flipping to a fresh sheet in his skimpy notepad. Finding himself suddenly without an appetite, Mark only asked for a small order of cheese fries, knowing that was all he could afford anyway, aside from Roger's dinner. Next to him Roger scrunched up his forehead, squinting down at his menu with as if the words were all jumbled. "And you?" the waiter asked, addressing Roger, who continued to let his eyes wander over the menu, oblivious to the question.

Mark tapped him on the shoulder and at once Roger sprang into alertness. His eyes met Mark's for a few seconds, then raised to the waiter as he hovered, hawk like, above him. Suddenly embarrassed, Roger glanced down sharply, looking briefly over the menu again before waving his hand dismissively. "Roger, honey, you have to eat," Mimi demanded, her full concern now resting with her boyfriend.

Mark translated this for Roger, careful to leave 'honey' out. Sighing with defeat, Roger pointed indifferently to 'Broccoli and Cheese Soufflé', his eyes never returning to the menu. With a scoff of impatience the waiter jotted the order down before moving counter-clockwise around the table until everyone was taken care of. Mark watched the waiter strut off, an irregular anger frothing inside of him, but his attention was restored at the table with some more raucous coughing from Roger. This time everyone heard it, as Roger couldn't hold the coughs in long enough to muffle them into the napkin. "Okay?" Mimi signed, concern visible as deep wrinkles in her forehead.

Roger nodded but continued coughing nevertheless, holding the napkin against his mouth and turning away from Mimi to prevent exposing her to any illness he might have developed. He sat hunched towards Mark, who couldn't do anything to help except rub Roger's back as he dug his head into Mark's chest, clutching the napkin to his mouth. Everyone at the table, if not everyone in the entire café, was silent, save Roger, of course, as his inclement coughs filled the silent void. However, Mark's pacifying touch seemed to appease the paroxysms, and soon the spasms had subsided long enough to allow Roger a few gulps of air. Coughing only a few times more, with less intensity than before, he sat up straight and took a sip from his glass of water, trying to ignore the disquieted looks everyone was giving him.

Mark was the only one who didn't gawk; instead he directed his gaze down towards his lap where his hands were resting. The stillness in the room was as unsettling as Roger's still labored breathing. Risking a glimpse across the table, Mark saw Collins raise his hands and prepare to sign something just as Roger muttered "bathroom" and staggered out of his chair.

Everyone sat in silence for a while, staring at their utensils, but avoiding eye contact with each other. After a while, Mimi stood up with a gasp that might have been the beginning of a sob, pressing her palms against the table for support, every limb trembling with repressed anxiety. "I think I'm going to go," she declared steadily, trying to maintain an unruffled composure despite her trembling, which was progressing to the point of shaking the entire table.

Moving her hand to the back of her chair, she leaned unstably towards Mark, whispering with a quaking voice on the verge of weeping in his ear. "Go make sure he's okay, then send him outside. He's coming home with me."

Excusing himself, Mark helped Mimi to the door, where she hugged him quickly before stepping outside to light up a cigarette. Then, with his heart hammering away at his ribcage, he strode swiftly to the bathroom, trying to avoid looking at his friends, grave with worry, as he passed their table.

Panic snagged Mark's heart and squeezed it into pulp when he entered the seemingly empty bathroom. _Holy shit, where'd he go? Where could he have possibly gone? I saw him go right into this bathroom, I swear I did!_ The sound of someone sneezing in one of the stalls recaptured both Mark's attention and sanity, and he sprinted in the direction the sound came from. Peering into the stall, he saw Roger clutching one hand to his stomach and holding a crumpled bunch of toilet paper in the other. He was leaning against the wall, with the clump of toilet paper pressed to his nose, and he was poised so that he could easily drop before the toilet and retch if needed. Mark could see clearly now, in the brighter, more natural lighting of the bathroom, that the ashen tone to Roger's skin wasn't an optical illusion. He really did look terrible.

Just as he spotted Mark Roger stifled another sneeze with the mass of tissues, his shoulders drawn taut as the force wracked his already weak body. A groan escaped his throat as he slid weakly to the floor, his eyes closed tightly. Mark watched Roger, the man he respected, the man he feared, the man he _loved_, shrink before him. _How did he get so weak? He seemed okay a few minutes ago… is it possible that he was hiding this pain from us the whole time?_

Before he could wonder anymore, Mark felt a set of bony fingers clamp around his ankle. "Mark."

Looking down, he could see Roger's glazed eyes staring up at him pleadingly, his hand clasping quite firmly around his ankle, despite his weakness. Mark kneeled and pulled Roger against him, unfazed with the fact that he could throw up any second. Mark would have taken Roger's ailment upon himself if it would leave Roger completely pain free. He knew Roger would be too proud to ask such a favor, that is, if such a favor were possible. But at this point, Mark wasn't sure how much longer Roger's pride would last, if it hadn't already shattered. _He _is_ on the bathroom floor,_ Mark reminded himself glumly.

Mark patted the back of Roger's head, running his hand up and down the hair he was so proud of, drenched through with a cold sweat. Roger sniffled against Mark's shirt from both the effort of holding back tears and this sudden illness. Mark was filled with dread as he recalled that the flu season was rapidly approaching, but how could Roger be sick? _Until now, we haven't left the house ever since he got sick… how could he have possibly been exposed to the flu?_

And then it hit him. _They_ hadn't left the house, not together, but Roger could have easily snuck out while Mark was at the food store. And as much as he wanted to trust Roger, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Roger!" Mark snapped, despite his efforts to remain calm.

He pushed Roger upright and held him at an arm's length away from him, both of his hands on his shoulders. "Have you been out of the loft before now?" he asked, trying to speak slowly so Roger could comprehend but speeding up unintentionally as his heart rate grew more frantic.

Though Roger's eyes were blank, Mark knew that he understood, but simply chose to not answer, hiding behind his deafness. "Roger!" Mark barked, losing all sense of reason and shaking Roger with frustration. "Did you leave the loft?"

Roger pulled away from Mark and leered at him, backing into the stall while Mark fumed with anger. He nodded defiantly, giving Mark a 'So what if I did?' look that only upset him more. "Why would you need to leave the loft?" Mark said, his voice high and hysterical; with his hands now free, he began to sign as well as talk, though his hands couldn't keep up with the words as they poured out of his mouth. "I brought you everything you needed and wanted. What could you possibly need that I couldn't get you? What was so important that you needed to leave the loft yourself, putting you health in jeopardy, to get?"

Whiter than the porcelain toilet behind him, Roger stared back at Mark, though during the tirade he had gone from ready to spit a slew of insults at Mark to ready to spit up much more. As sick as Roger looked, Mark had to know the truth. He had to know why his friend still insisted on lying and hiding things, even after all these years together, even now that Roger was on the brink of death. "Was it heroin, Roger?" Mark exploded, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "Did you sneak out to pay a visit to your old friend the drug dealer? Did you get a kick out of duping stupid old Mark who has been nothing but loyal and reliable to you?"

Silent tears slid down Roger's pallid face, but Mark would have continued to shout if Roger hadn't turned away from him to hunch up against the toilet. Mark's anger melted away the second the vomit hit the water, and he was behind Roger immediately, thankful that Roger's hair wasn't so long that it needed holding back. He waited until the pattern of choking and retching turned to dry-heaving before helping Roger up and letting him lean on him. "I'm sorry Rog, I'm sorry," Mark nearly whispered, his lips pressed against Roger's temple as he uttered the words. "It's going to be alright. We're going home now. You, me, Mimi, we're all going home. It's going to be okay."

He shuffled out of the bathroom with Roger, then hurried through the café to the exit without even sparing a glance at the table where they had been sitting earlier in the evening. He pushed open the glass door and helped Roger down the stairs, eager to get back to the loft, away from the intrusive eyes and ears that followed them out of the restaurant. He steadied Roger against him, wrapping his arm around his body and holding him close at his side for warmth and support. _This isn't the end,_ Mark's mind persisted. _I won't let these moments be his last. He won't die, not now. He'll live to see another day, another week, another month, if I can help it._

Little did Mark know that someone else very dear to him had suffered through their last moments just outside the Life Café while he and Roger were in the bathroom. He was so determined to get Roger home and into bed that the thought of Mimi didn't even cross his mind until he passed under the first streetlight just before the alleyway beside the café and saw the bloody footprints in the freshly fallen snow…


End file.
